


Bad Cop

by Karabair (likeadeuce)



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-17
Updated: 2010-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-13 17:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/Karabair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roque recognized the exact moment when it became inevitable Clay was going to go off mission.  Yet somehow he was still there with him when it happened.  Because somebody had to be the bad cop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Cop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Zee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zee/gifts).



> Thank you to my great beta readers, Harmonyangel and Inlovewithnight!

Roque recognized the exact moment when it became inevitable. The President of the United States stood, in a flight suit, on the deck of an aircraft carrier. The Losers, as they were then constituted, sat in a tent in the Iraqi desert, watching the whole damn farce on a satellite feed on Jensen's laptop. From that point forward, it was only a matter of time until Colonel Franklin Clay went completely and irrevocably off the reservation.

Not that Roque said so at the time. What he said was "Mission fucking accomplished," with a barked-out laugh.

"I don't think so," said Jensen. "Now when I can get a pizza delivered from Baghdad to Fallujah, with pineapple _and_ anchovies? _That_ will be an accomplishment."

If you asked Jensen, the only advantage that New York City had over the middle of the goddamn desert was the easy delivery of grease-soaked fake Italian food. He probably even meant it. The kid lived in his own head, which might as well have been a computer terminal most of the time. It was just as easy to be Jensen in Fallujah or on Long Island or at the fucking South Pole. That must have been what Clay had seen in him, because otherwise Jensen was basically just a child. "You are a strange, strange man," said Roque. Not that he minded. He could appreciate a change of subject right about now.

But Clay wasn't ready for that. "Missions have different parameters," he said, and he said it over Jensen's head. Looking straight at Roque.

"I don't know anybody who's against _pizza_."

"Shut up, Jensen," said Clay. This was something one or the other of them said at least five times an hour, so it shouldn't have attracted any special attention. But there was a hard-edged quality in Clay's voice, so much so that Cougar looked up from cleaning his gun.

Jensen even, actually, shut up.

"Fine," Roque said. "Missions have parameters. The parameter of this mission is that it looks great on television. That we been up in here barely six weeks and there's people at home gonna get restless if they don't hear that it's almost goddamn over. People we don't want thinking about how we haven't found any of the WMD's that's supposedly what we came in here to get rid of."

"You don't know what they've found," Clay said. "You gotta have a little faith in the intelligence."

"Blind faith in secret intelligence? That sounds about right. Or – what, Colonel? You know something I don't?" Roque looked around the tent. "You guys seen any weapons of mass destruction?"

"You mean besides Cougar?" Clay tried to joke. Cougar looked up from the gun long enough to wink.

Roque rolled his eyes, and Jensen said, "I hate it when Mommy and Daddy fight," right when Clay was attempting to put a conciliatory hand on Roque's shoulder. It was a bad combination. Roque didn't like Clay touching him, not like that, and if it was going to happen he sure as hell didn't need it to be a joke to Jacob fucking Jensen.

Roque threw an elbow. He caught Clay in the side. The colonel gasped, taken by surprise, but only for a second. He looked up, wide-eyed, then lunged, at which point Roque threw a punch, and after that. . .after that, it got messy.

In the end, Roque let Clay knock him down. _Must have_ let him do it, Roque told himself later, because sure Clay was a big guy, sure he could fight, but Roque was _a fighter_. Fighting had gotten him hauled before the headmaster at his Jesuit school, the headmaster had steered him into Golden Gloves to keep him out of juvie, and from fighting in Golden Gloves to fighting for Uncle Sam was a natural step. So if Clay was knocking Roque down, then Roque had to be letting him. If Clay had remembered what they were supposed to be, colonel and captain, chain of command, Roque's ass should have ended up in a brig somewhere. But Roque knew all he would have to do was let the Colonel knock him down in the end, and Clay would be reaching down to help him to his feet.

"It happens," Clay said. He actually brushed off Roque's shoulder and stared at him for a long moment. Roque just stared back until he realized he was probably supposed to say something.

"Dunno what got into me there, man," he said. Maybe Clay was expecting more of an apology but as far as Roque was concerned, his apology had been _losing_.

It was good enough, apparently, because Clay broke his grip and then said, to the room, "This is good news." Indicating the screen they had forgotten about where the President was still, apparently, talking. "Trust the intelligence. It will bear us out." Like Clay thought they had fought some kind of medieval trial by combat, and because Roque ended up on his ass, somehow Clay was proven right.

"That was something," said Jensen.

"Shut up, Jensen," Roque and Clay said together.

Cougar pushed his hat down over his eyes and kept on cleaning his gun.

That night, Clay told Roque that the team's priorities were going global. As in Indonesia, running down a lead on the cell that had bombed Bali back in '02.

"That makes sense," said Roque. "The mission _here_ is accomplished."

"You try my patience, Captain," Clay sighed.

"Nah. You love me too much for that." As he spoke, Roque rubbed his shoulder, because Clay had gotten a better blow in than he thought. Roque wasn't ready to fight his colonel anymore. The less Clay thought about the mission they weren't accomplishing, the better it was for everybody. Besides, Roque was ready to get out of this fucking desert.

*

When they got to Bali, they met another cell of special forces. These included the driver called Pooch, who Clay would eventually charm into joining the Losers permanently. Not that Clay _needed_ to charm him. He was the Colonel, and Pooch was a fresh-minted second lieutenant who told people to call him a dog's name, for fuck's sake. The weird thing about Clay and the chain of command, though, was that because he was so damn married to it, he needed it to mean something. Actual respect and affection, not just regulations on paper.

Roque actually liked Pooch, though. Somehow being around him made Jensen seem more human and Cougar more. . .well, more present, if that made any sense. Cougar still didn't ever say a damn thing, but somehow triangulating between the three of them you could almost approximate an almost normal reaction to whatever was going on. They worked together well as a team, too. It wasn't the team that was the problem.

In the same unit where they met Pooch, there was a big hulking blond guy called Wade. It was Wade who introduced Roque to the voice on the end of the phone. The two of them had ended up together at a bar in Bali, doing R & R that was really recon, or maybe recon that was really R & R. Wade sidled up to him, and Roque gripped his beer glass, because he had seen the guy watching him and he thought there might be some kind of pickup in the offing.

Roque even thought he might say yes. It had been way too damn long. Wade was a mean son of a bitch (but so was Roque) and wasn't particularly his type (but if he had a type they were barrel-chested and gruff, and a hell of a lot more like _Clay_ , and that was a road Roque wasn't going to let himself think about going down). Of course, if Roque guessed wrong about Wade's intentions, this was a quick way to get kicked out of the Army (but however deep in the morass of black ops the Losers were, Wade was deeper, and there was no point in worrying about asking or telling with those SOB's, because if they cared they already fucking _knew_ ).

That wasn't what Wade wanted, though. "You got a phone call," he said, and while Roque instinctively looked down for a mobile unit, Wade nodded at a creaky booth toward the back. "Or you're going to in about thirteen seconds. If you're seen or if anybody asks? We're in Bali. I trust you can invent a suitably unsavory excuse."

Roque hated cloak and dagger shit, but he had been in this line of work long enough to know that some people loved it and they either died fast or were way above his pay grade. In any case, the percentages worked out that he ought to humor them.

"So," said the voice on the other end of the phone. "You see what we're dealing with here, when it comes to Colonel Clay. You see that, don't you, Roque?"

"This call is about Clay?" Roque demanded. "You have doubts about Clay, and you approach me about it like this?" He didn't bother to ask who _they_ were, any more than he was fooled by the attempt to draw Roque together with _them_ into some kind of _we_.

"Don't be hasty now, Roque. Don't be hasty at all. I never said we had doubts. Far from it. We are interested in Clay. Intrigued, I should say. Fascinated by his potential. Tell me, Roque. Would you categorize Colonel Clay as a believer?"

Right away, Roque thought of Clay in the tent that day, Clay trying a little too hard to convince the rest of them of the virtue of the mission. Anybody who didn't know the score might have thought the loyalty threat there was Roque. Whoever this asshole on the phone was, he was at least smart enough to understand it was the other way around. "Sure Clay's a believer. He's proud of what we're doing. Thinks we can change the world for the better."

"Just as our psychological profiles would indicate. And he's a smart man, Roque. He's correct about that. _We_ can change the world. We're going to."

 _But is Clay's "we" the same as your "we"?_ Roque wondered. He was becoming more and more certain that it wasn't, but he knew better than to say so out loud. Instead, he said, "You already know everything, and you think Clay's so smart. What are you talking to me for?"

"Profiles are only so effective, Roque. A man on the ground can do much more. If you continue to serve with Clay, we believe the two of you together could go far. His, as you say, belief, combined with your practicality. A man like yourself could fill the role of – what is the term? – bad cop."

Roque grunted. "If I wanted to be a cop, I'd have been a cop." He had enlisted out of high school, in 1991. Between a cocky, victorious military and police departments that pulled men who looked like Roque out of their cars and beat them in plain sight, there hadn't been a contest.

"That's right, Roque," the voice soothed. "I remember now. If you hadn't joined the Army you were going to be – a priest?"

With a string of Jesuit schools on his application, it could have been a lucky guess. But Roque didn't think so. "You got a profile on the Captain. I guess you got one on me, too." Nothing from the other end of the phone now, and for an instant Roque thought they'd been disconnected, but he kept talking anyway. "It say on there anywhere I got a fucking Judas complex?"

The quality of silence on the line changed, somehow, but after a moment the voice turned into a laugh. "You're a funny one, Roque. A sense of humor is a good quality in a man. It speaks of a certain flexible attitude. An ability to see the world as perhaps it ought to be and yet accept it as it has to be. "

"I wasn't joking." Whoever this fucker was, he wasn't Roque's commanding officer. "If you think you're recruiting me to sell out the Colonel. . ."

"Loyalty is a fine quality in a man, Roque. It is, in fact, indicated by your profile. The last thing we want is someone to betray a commanding officer. Far from it. It's a matter of tactics," the voice continued. "Of chemistry, so to speak. Colonel Clay's profile indicates a powerful need to be a hero."

"And we wouldn't want any of those in the Army."

"See there," said the voice. "You do have a sense of humor. I know we'll be able to work together."

"Fuck you, man," said Roque. But he didn't hang up.

*

The crazy part was, when Clay finally went off mission, Roque was right there with him. They were all with him, because first of all, nobody liked finding out that they'd been lied to about the objective. On top of that, it was about kids. They'd all _been_ kids – and not very happy ones, Roque bet, because people with happy childhoods just didn't get into this line of work. Even a chronically cheerful guy like Pooch, if you dug far beneath the surface, likely had a lot of shit he was keeping buried.

What the guy on the phone didn't get (what Max didn't get; he had a name now and it was Max), was that you could be dealing with a squad of stone psychos, and you brought kids into it, you'd changed the equation. Even if he'd been dealing with psychos, and none of them were that. They were just losers.

For that moment, they were all on the same page, and it wasn't the page that the voice at the other end of the phone wanted them to be on. Jensen called it in. Children were present in the target area, and he strongly recommended changing the plan. When that didn't work, Clay gave the signal and Cougar knocked out the targeting equipment. Only it didn't matter, the bombs were coming anyway. So Clay looked at Roque, and Roque explained the plan. They'd never worked together better. They were like a well-oiled machine.

The kids died anyway. If the Losers had been where they were supposed to be, they would have died too. It was only then, as they stood staring at the smoldering wreckage, that Roque realized, _This is the kind of thing they were expecting me to stop. Max thought I'd be okay with what they were asking. I was supposed to keep Clay in line, get us in to do the job, and get us out of here. Max thought I was that man._

Clay knelt with his head in his hands. Roque walked over to touch his shoulder and, when the Colonel looked up, his eyes were red. "This is it, man," Clay said. "This changes the rest of our lives.

 _This has been coming for a long time_ , Roque thought, but didn't say.

Almost immediately, another thought followed it. _You really think this is the first time we got any kids killed?_ Roque pushed that idea into the back of his head, along with all of the others that didn't do any good to pursue.

Right now, they had to figure out what would happen next

.  
*

"Funny thing we ended up in Bolivia," Roque said. He was lying sideways across the cheap hotel mattress, tilting his head over the side to stare at the dirty ceiling. Possibly he was a little bit drunk. "Just like in that movie," he added.

"What movie?" Clay slumped down in a chair on the other side of the room. This was Clay's room, probably. They hadn't sorted that out for sure, and Roque didn't know where the others had gone.

Roque shut one eye and looked at Clay through it. "That movie where the two guys are running from the law and they end up in Bolivia."

" _The Defiant Ones_?"

Roque had to sit up now so he could stare at Clay. "The _what_?"

" _The Defiant Ones_. Tony Curtis and Sidney Poitier? They escape from a chain gang but they're shackled together? So they have to learn to get along? From the way you're looking at me, I'm guessing that's not it."

"Man, what's that got to do with what I'm talking about? Do I look like Sidney Poitier to you?"

Clay tilted his head. "A little bit. Is that racist?"

"A little bit."

"Hey now. He's a good looking guy. What movie did you mean?"

 _Now_ Roque thought of it, and remembered why, in his drunken state, he'd thought of it – the ultimate story about a couple of outlaws that everybody knew was a love story -- and really wished he hadn't. " _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_. You know. 'Next time you say let's go someplace like Bolivia, let's _go_ someplace like Bolivia.'" Clay looked blank, and Roque shook his head. "How are you an American man and you never seen that movie?"

Clay shrugged. "Dunno. I saw _Cool Hand Luke_?"

"Not the same."

"So am I Newman or Redford?"

"Newman," Roque grunted. "Cause Butch was like you, with all the goddamn brilliant plans. Me, I gotta be Sundance. He was the bad cop."

"They were _cops_? I thought they were bank robbers."

Roque shook his head. "Clay, this is so not important, you can't believe how unimportant it is. Shouldn't have brought it up."

"Some place like Bolivia," Clay mused. "Wasn't there a girl with them, in that movie?"

"Oh that's just what we need around here is you picking up a woman. Because we just got the CIA out to kill us, but ain't nobody put a _bomb_ in your car yet."

"You bring that up like it happens every time I meet a woman."

Roque shook his head. "How many times does it _take_?"

"Emma was very special."

"If by special," Roque said, "you mean a homicidal maniac. . ."

"Now are you telling me that you, William Roque, have never done a single stupid thing because of a woman?"

Roque clenched his fists because it was amazing, sometimes, with all Clay's so-called brains, the things he could choose to be thoroughly oblivious about. "Have I?" he asked, speaking slowly, because it was occurring to him that things really had changed, that he wasn't in the Army anymore, that Clay wasn't his commanding officer. Or maybe it really was just that he was drunk. "In all the time you've known me, Clay, have you ever seen me chasing after a woman?"

"I – well – there was that time –" Clay frowned. "I always figured you were discreet. And it was none of my business. Look, we don't have to. . ."

"You know what, though?" Roque was on his feet before he exactly planned it, walking toward Clay. "I think maybe we do have to. Because tell me. In all the time you've known me. Have you ever seen me go against orders? Put myself and the squad into unnecessary danger? Risk a military career that's the only damn thing I have?" He stared down into Clay's eyes. "You ever see me do that for a woman?"

"No. Now that you say that –" He cleared his throat. "Now that you say that it's hard to imagine.

"Right. Now. Since it all comes down to this point, you and me in this room, all of the rest of it over and done. You ever notice me doing that for anybody?"

"Not. . .well, not unless you mean. . ."

Roque put a hand on Clay's shoulder. "Sometimes," Roque said, "In some ways. You are a goddamn terrible spy."

They hadn't planned on what happened next. At least, Roque was pretty sure he hadn't planned it ( _thought of it_ maybe but that was different), and there was no way in hell Clay had planned on it. He sure didn't act like he minded, though, not once they got started. (Roque wondered if this was the way it had been with Butch and Sundance). They weren't at it for that long, but it was fast and rough and it didn't take much for Roque, not after all this time.

Then they were lying in the narrow bed. Apparently this was going to be _both_ of their room; Roque was a little sorry that they'd paid for two.

"I knew this was going to happen," Roque said. "A long time ago."

"What, this?" Clay asked, touching his hand to Roque's bare chest.

Roque laughed, then, and pulled Clay's palm away, pressing it between his fingers. "Not, actually, this part. The Bolivia part. Or – not that it would be Bolivia. But. I knew you'd walk away from a mission. Eventually. And I didn't realize it, but I knew we'd all go with you."

Clay pushed Roque down against the bed so he could look in his eyes, and frowned. "Define a long time ago," he said. "Because I didn't have any idea about it until this week."

"I'm not surprised you didn't. But –" Roque sure as hell wasn't going to mention his previous contact with Max. That didn't matter anyway, not now, because Roque had come through on Clay's side without even thinking about it. "I've known it since that day in Iraq I let you kick my ass for saying they weren't gonna find any WMD's. Which by the way –"

"All right, all right," Clay said, then, "Let me kick your ass? Oh never mind. But how does you being insubordinate prove that I was gonna go off mission?"

"Because," Roque said. "None of us knew if they would find any weapons, and I'm including in that the people who made the call to invade. I'm including _me_ and I don't mind saying so. But you? You actually cared. Which means you actually believed what they were shoveling, which means you thought what they were telling you _should_ be true, which means on some level --" He clenched a hand around Clay's upper arm, which felt thick and satisfying in his hand. "On some level you still care."

Clay frowned. "Is there a problem with that?"

"The problem is you think we can fight 'em."

"Well what's the alternative? We want to be able to go back home."

"Home?" Roque laughed. "What's home? Sure, _Pooch_ wants to go home. He's got a wife who's about to spawn. Jensen has a sister and some kind of niece he's always flashing pictures of, and is it just me or is that a little fucked up? Maybe Cougar even has somebody. But what is there for us?"

"Clear our names," Clay said as if it was self-evident. "Get us back in the Army."

"Clear our names?" Roque repeated. "Back in the Army? After --?" Like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. But he did believe it. He knew Clay.

"So what's your alternative, smart guy?"

"You really gotta ask? There's all kinds of work in the world for men with our skill set. Hell, we could stay here." Even as he said it, Roque lay back in the bed, realizing how pointless this argument was going to be. He had plenty of practice fighting with Clay, but not enough practice winning.

"Stay here? Like the guys in your movie?" He settled down beside Roque, and yawned. "How does that end anyway?"

 _In a futile charge and a hail of bullets,_ Roque thought. "Oh, you know," he said, "Same way the one we're in is going to."

"Cool," Clay said.

And, as they fell asleep together, Roque worked hard on not thinking about the fact that he still knew how to get in touch with Max. He still had a way back, if he decided to use it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Might Wanna Hold Back (Just Enough to Let Go Remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/405633) by [lady_krysis (saekhwa)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis)




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